


A little meddling goes a long way

by archiesfrog



Category: The Grand Sophy - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 02:40:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17034966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archiesfrog/pseuds/archiesfrog
Summary: The account of the attempted courtship of Augustus Fawnhope, or: In which Sophy is very well-meaning, and also very wrong.





	A little meddling goes a long way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ione/gifts).



> Happy yuletide, Ione!
> 
> With profuse thanks to labellementeuse for the absolutely fantastic beta.

“Sophy, won’t you help?” 

Mrs Charles Rivenhall turned a distracted face to her sister Cecilia Rivenhall. Her attention was divided. She and Charles had been, when unobserved, engaged in a delightfully silly competition of making faces at one another all evening, and just now she had also been contemplating the tea. The matter of tea would normally have been easy but was complicated by a desire not to be stuck modelling pouring all evening for a demanding poet, a wish to soon retire with her husband, and a suspicion she might shortly find herself being rather rude to a guest. “Help with what, dear?”

“Fawnhope!” exclaimed Cecilia. “He is so terribly melancholy; we must help him. Couldn’t we find him a wife, Sophy?”

Augustus Fawnhope, Sophy thought, had not looked in the least sad when he had ridden out with the hunters in the morning, or indeed last night, when he had been fully occupied composing an ode to the tilt of her hand when she poured tea. He required her to pour repeatedly, the better to allow him to observe the movement and capture it in words, and there had been no trace of melancholy in his insistent requests. She was quite nearly cross with him, except, as usual, he had been so well-meaning and so absent-mindedly charming that just when she had been almost out of all patience, she had laughed instead.

“Why, he seems perfectly happy to me, Cecilia. What on earth makes you suggest such a scheme?” Sophy asked, attempting to evade catching the eye of her husband and thereby avoid laughing at what she could tell out of the corner of her eye was a very comical face indeed.

“He said he regretted not marrying me! He was watching the Talgarths across the room. I ventured to remark that they seemed happy, and he said – oh, you know how he is always quoting things, but something about how marriage is winning a lottery, and how winning would make him happy. Oh, Sophy, he just stared off into space after that and quite forgot we were talking. He must be so dreadfully unhappy.”

Sophy, her mind mostly occupied with stifling laughter and at least somewhat with the teapot before her, did not find this account convincing, especially as Fawnhope was prone to staring into space, and resting his poets eye on the Talgarths was not, she had noticed, at all unusual. Nor was she inclined to meddle where she was not needed. She disposed of her problem and her sister by desiring Cecilia to pour the tea this once, and retired well satisfied with her solution, her husband, and the house party in general.  


The next morning being fine, most of the party were hunting. Sophy would have ridden out with them, but had some household matters to attend to, Lady Ombersley having been delighted to delegate much of the work of hosting to her new daughter. Those tasks dispensed with, she found the stay-at-homes in the sitting room. She joined Cecilia in reading a novel, leaving Lady Talgarth and Lady Ombersley to their naps on carefully arranged matching sofas. Sophy thought with tolerant amusement that Sancia was just as lazy as ever as the new Lady Talgarth, and Lady Ombersley delighted to have reason to join their guest.

A few minutes later Cecilia put down her novel with a sigh and raised again her worries about Fawnhope. 

Lady Ombersley stirred herself to speak, even going so far as to open her eyes. “Oh yes, Lady Lutterworth does worry about him so. She has been filling my ears with him this past month. She asked him to accompany her to Lady A_’s house party, and normally, you know, he would do so, but he declined. And she says he didn’t even go to the _ races, and that’s so unlike him she is quite overset. She is getting to be quite awkward company, always in the hips and dreadfully fretful.”

The mild complaint was sufficient, combined with Cecilia’s insistence, to convince Sophy to turn her mind to the problem. Nevertheless, as she put it, "I’m not so bird-witted as to leap to marriage as the only solution for the world's ills, and declare Augustus Fawnhope needs a wife.”

Mr Fawnhope entering the room so soon after this pronouncement as to have surely overheard it discomposed her not bit. Instead, she challenged him to support her statement.

“I myght have bene maryed an I had wolde, but I never applyed me yet to be maryed,” he replied.

“Sir Lancelot is an unhappy spectre to call upon when discussing marriage, with the tangle he had with Arthur and Guinevere. You are, then, currently against the married state for yourself?” Sophy observed.

“Like the Wife of Bath, while it may please some to be pure, body and soul, I won’t make any boast about my own estate, but find myself more inclined to five marriages than to none.”

After this startling pronouncement, Mr Fawnhope left the room, and Sophy stared after him a little blankly. Then she nodded decisively. “Augustus Fawnhope needs a wife.”

With a new cause, united in effort, Sophy and Cecilia set aside their novels and plunged into discussion, with Lady Ombersleys occasional additions. In the course of half an hour over the tea tray candidates were raised and dismissed as too poor, too plain, too quiet, unable easily to adapt to the fits and starts of a poet in the midst of inspiration, or lacking the romantic temperament that would properly admire said poet's genius. Sophy, now fully bent on the project, continued to consider options for Augustus as Lady Ombersley and Cecilia left the room, content Sophy had the matter in hand. Her mind rapidly held up and equally rapidly discarded candidates. One of the Misses Weaverham was certainly an option, but although there was money, Lady Lutterworth would certainly raise strong objections to Sir Joshua, and possibly he to Augustus. Thinking of Bath residents moved her to consider Miss Wendover. She was an heiress, with spirit and a sense of romance, and, as she was currently residing in the neighbourhood, visiting with her particular friend from the past London season, a Miss Craxton, the opportunity was also there for her to form an attachment with Fawnhope. 

Before she had fully settled the matter, Lady Talgarth stirred from her nap. “The poet is well enough, Sophia. He is not in need of your estimable organisation nor indefatigable energy,” she murmured.

Sophy, unsure just how much Lady Talgarth had overheard, considered her with affectionate unconcern. “Just consider, Sancia, if I do not spend my time finding a wife for Augustus, we shall be having expeditions, picnics and other gaieties here daily, for we can hardly hunt all the time, and I quite refuse to hold a teapot for two hours together again.”

“Ah, bah, that was badly done of him, and I told him so. As for your gaieties, those I shall attend, or not, and you shall have cushions brought on the picnic, and find me a pleasant spot where I shall nap. I do not think your talent for oversetting a household and rearranging lives as you please will find success in Augustus.”

“But I always leave people better situated than I find them,” Sophy said, making her mind up as she spoke. “With Cecilia and Lady Lutterworth both overset, something clearly must be done about Augustus. Besides, Fanny Wendover will make him a fine wife. They will suit well, if they can be brought to see it.”

Sophy’s first attempt did not go did not go as expected. She thought that inviting some of the younger neighbours around for a ride would show one of Augustus’s strengths—his excellent seat. There was general agreement to take a day’s break from hunting for a pleasure trip, and the weather was fair. A fine party assembled. Sancia remained firm that the expedition should be a gentle one, stating her preference for a carriage rather than horseback, and a couch over both. Lady Ombersley had been pleased with the opportunity this gave her to do the same.

Inviting Miss Wendover also brought Miss Craxton. The two were firm friends, having shared the experience of coming out in the last season. Miss Craxton and Miss Wendover also shared a taste for novels, a good seat on their horse and a lively sense of humour. 

 

Lady Charlbury, as Sophy expected, was quick to promote Mr Fawnhope to the two young ladies. “Such a clever young man—a poet, you know.”

“A poet—how wonderful. Mr Fawnhope, have you published?”

“A few trifles, Miss Craxton, and a volume of early works.” He further explained he was currently working on an epic, and a series in which Sophy was featured as various incarnations of virtuous womanhood.

“And do you write in the romantic style? I do so love Lord Byron’s verse,” said Miss Wendover.

“Yes, indeed!” Miss Craxton agreed with enthusiasm. “So very thrilling.” 

The pair expanded on this theme, and Lord Talgarth, with a mischievous smile, began to agree with them. “Certainly, Byron has his admirers, but don’t ask Augustus about him,” he said with a twitch of his lips. “You’ll be hearing about the man’s flaws for days.”  
“Why don’t we race to the river?” Sophy interjected hurriedly, seeing poor Mr Fawnhope was struck speechless by the unfortunate turn in the conversation to his more popular rival.  
This suggestion found firm favour with the active members of the party. Soon they were galloping, with Augustus and Fanny leading. Sophy let them pull away, and her husband pulled up beside her.

“Scheming, Sophy?”

“Really, Charles, what a thing to accuse me of.”

He looked at her with amused vexation.  
“Enjoy your plotting then, little pest.”

“I hardly plot,” Sophy protested. “People are just so bad at seeing what would suit them best. I give a little nudge, at most.”

However, the satisfaction Sophy felt at the sight of Mr Fawnhope and Miss Wendover riding away together was short-lived, her nudge apparently unreceived. Not an hour later the majority of the party re-formed in the shade of a large oak, which Sancia had made hers with cushions and sweets.  
Only Lord Talgarth and Mr Fawnhope were missing. 

Lord Charlbury explained Mr Fawnhope had not found the conversation stimulating, as the ladies were thoroughly occupied in talking of Glenarvon. Indeed, discussing the finer points of the novel occupied the three ladies through the afternoon. Sophy shook out her fidgets with a ride with her husband and brother-in-law, considering philosophically that even if her attempt at matchmaking had been foiled, a brisk ride in the sun still made the day worthwhile.

 

As the afternoon idled on, Augustus still did not return, and nor did Lord Talgarth.  
Sancia was supremely unconcerned for the fate of either the poet or her husband. “They will be in for dinner. There will be daisies, or hills, or a tree. There is always something, but when the poet is hungry, he will return, and if he does not, Sir Vincent will fetch him.”

 

Indeed, Lady Talgarth’s prediction proved accurate. When the two returned, the explanation for their delay was given in unpolished verse

“The willows were calling, the water was rushing, down in the valley, the valley so fair. No. Not fair, it scans but lacks emphasis, perhaps bare?” Augustus descended into muttering.

Lord Talgarth moved past him, and smiled at Sophy. “I can scarcely believe you were concerned, Juno. Our poet found the river stimulating. He was wandering the banks for some time, and I stayed to ensure he recalled dinner.”

 

The party remained together for dinner, but Sophy’s plans for an evening of charades, to best demonstrate Mr Fawnhope’s wit and allow the company to mingle pleasantly, were unconsciously spoilt again by Augustus himself, who sat with Lady Talgarth and Lady Ombersley, entertaining them both and paying no heed to the young ladies. Sophy made a few artless attempts over the evening to pair Augustus with Miss Wendover, but admitted to herself they lacked her usual flare. They also failed, as Augustus refused to play cards and Miss Wendover declined a game of lottery, so Sophy eventually gave up on her matchmaking for the evening, resolving to try again the next day.

The next morning Lord Talgarth came upon Sophy in the garden, with a basket over one arm.“Married life turning you domestic, Grand Sophy?”

Sophy looked ruefully at the basket. “Not at all,” she said, “or at least only for short duration. I had thought to do something about the flowers, but now I’m out here, I really can’t think what.”She took his proffered arm, abandoned the basket, and they strolled on.

“I see you’ve got Augustus in mind for organising. It won’t do, Sophy.”

“Why ever not? You know as well as I that he’s a hopeless case. He’d forget to eat if someone wasn’t around to put food in front of him.”

“Oh, he eats when he’s hungry. He doesn’t need your brand of a stir-up, nor any kind of wife.”

Sophy looked at him. “What do you know, Sir Vincent?”

“That that Wendover girl you’ve set your mind is a non-starter.”

“She’s perfectly suitable—“

“It’s not a question of that. Haven’t you noticed she’s never looked twice at him? She has an understanding with a young chap in Bath—has had one since before the season.”

“She’s engaged?”

“Nothing so formal, I understand, but likely to become so soon enough, and both very happy.”

Sophy considered the new information. “Well, that only rules out Miss Wendover, not marriage.”

Talgarth laughed. “Give over, Sophy!”

He had been leading her around the side of the house, to the wilder gardens. It was a favourite spot of Sancia’s, and if she stirred outdoors at al would most often be found there. There she was, indeed, seated on a bench, and Mr Fawnhope knelt beside her. Neither of these things surprised Sophy, but the kiss they were exchanging caused her to start, and turn with false calm.

“Do you know, Sir Vincent, I’ve just remembered what I was doing with that basket. We’d better go back for it.”

“No need to distract me, Sophy,” Lord Talgarth said, looking at his wife in another man’s embrace. “I know what they’re about, and have no complaints, I assure you. No pistols at dawn here.”

“But –“

Lord Talgarth took out and inhaled a pinch of snuff. —“I’d not have said anything. Explanations bore me. But when you’ve got the bit between your teeth, who knows where it might end up. Don’t fret, Soph. He is our darling boy, and we take good care of him, I assure you!”

Sophy had no answer to make to this beyond felicitations, and a rapid, slightly confused retreat.  
She glanced back as she left, and saw Sancia smiling up as Talgarth approached, while Augustus remained at their side, clearly content.

 

By the time she had returned to her abandoned basket, Sophy had talked herself out of her surprise and into an agreeable mood. This was brightened further on finding her basket held by her husband.

“Well, Sophy, how goes the plotting?”

Sophy looked ruefully at Charles. “Augustus is quite content with his life and needs no concern of ours. How to convince your mama, sister and Lady Lutterworth of that is another matter.”

Charles smiled at her. “Fawnhope’s a puppy, but his affairs are well enough in hand, it seems. Calming my mother and Cecilia sounds unlikely, but turning their thought to other channels is a challenge well worthy of your talents, Sophy. You need only be yourself, and enough of a distracting fuss will arise nearby soon!”

**Author's Note:**

> The quote Cecilia misunderstands is regrettably modern: “Marriage is a lottery in which men stake their liberty and women their happiness. ~ Virginie des Rieux
> 
> “I myght have bene maryed and I had wolde, but I never applyed me yet to be maryed.” is from Le Morte Darthur, Sir Thomas Malory, spelling used from the Greg Waite edition
> 
> Augustus is paraphrasing from Chaucer, The Wife of Baths prologue


End file.
